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LOVE 

BLOSSOMS 


BY 

EDWARD J. CONKLIN 



Published by 

THE PLAINDEALER PRESS 


Wichita, Kansas 
















































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LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE ONE 


To my loving Mother 
I dedicate these pages, because 
all that is good in them, and much of 
whatever is good in the Author, comes of her 
pure and tender love. 

Edward J. Conklin. 



PAGE TWO 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


“What I do 

And what I dream includes thee , as the wine 
Must taste of its own grape.” 

(Elizabeth Barret Browning) 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THREE 


Preface 

One day in the strange, wide path of Chance, as 
the twilight was closing the flowers, a train brought 
itself to a dead stop at a station on the eastern coast 
of Mexico, with great groans and sighs of relief that 
it had made its goal. There alighted a man, with a sad 
and heavy heart. As he surveyed the decaying station 
and the town, he smiled—for it seemed that here, too, 
Fate had been unkind and God forgotten. To him the 
world seemed only a huge graveyard of buried dreams 
—a garden of dying cypress and weeping willows. 

A misty something gathered over his eyesight— 
brushing it away he began to gather up his luggage 
and discovered that one of the dirty little ragamuffins 
had appropriated one piece. 

He realized that he could not travel farther—that 
the ocean was just beyond—that in making a bid for 
life and light he must accept his portion of death and 
darkness—must take the wounds which go with doing 
and daring—the balance must be preserved. 

Amid the tropical flowers, bathed in the Southern 
sun and surrounded by Nature's Orchestra, his soul 
soon blossomed forth—and with the awakening came 
Love—Love with such ardor, such persistence, such 
passion, that he believed it would surely strangle him. 

One night as all Nature was nestling down into 
heavy slumber and all vegetation was turning its 
foliage upward to drink in the dew-drops from heaven, 
he heard a voice calling him. He arose, to find him¬ 
self standing upon the beach, under some large palms. 
Looking out across the sea, again he heard the whis¬ 
pering voice and fancied it to be the low, moaning 
lullaby of the lonely waves. But something held him 
spellbound. Again his keen ears caught the voice, 
and gently, as gently as a flower giving forth its per¬ 
fume, it came to him over the rippling waves—and 



PAGE FOUR 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


there in the moon's silvery path appeared a woman. 
Thru a mist of tears he recognized His Woman! He 
fell to his knees upon the sand, with outstretched arms 
and upturned face, and the lacy shadows of the palms 
about him, and thanked whatever God there be for 
sending him his soul mate. As she advanced, her 
beautiful, soft, appealing eyes mirrored infinity—he 
saw her Soul, and he vowed: “Death shall not divide 
us, nor is eternity long enough to separate thee from 
me." The air seemed filled with a hazy fragrance, 
as of hidden flowers—and as she kissed his moist brow 
the moon softly slipped down behind the palms and 
left the landscape gray. 

Since that magic night his hungry heart can only 
find relief thru writing her; her own dear missives 
must be left to the gentle reader's fancy. Should you 
chance to see and recognize her among the blossoms 
in your world, will you tell her I am waiting—waiting 
—it is best so. 


THE AUTHOR. 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE FIVE 


MAY FOURTH 

I. 

Was it only last night? Yes, it must have been 
last night, but it seems such a long time ago. Truly 
hours are capacious things—they hold so much. 

You see I am prompt to avail myself of your per¬ 
mission to write you. Why I acted so strangely last 
evening is still an unsolved mystery to me. Were it 
not for my racing pulse, I would believe it all to have 
been a wonderful dream. Why should YOU affect me 
so—among the myriads of women, with whom I have 
heretofore ever been on the defensive! But last night 
when you stood in the moon’s silvery path, its sheen 
no brighter than that of your fair hair, my soul 
seemed to leave my body and merge into yours. 

WOMAN! As an institution, is very well indeed. 
But woman in particular—I have not liked them— 
much. Their ways disturb me—annoy me—and most 
of them are superficial—perfumed. Yet I have always 
felt that somewhere in this earth of beauty there was 
for me a Woman who—who was a Real Woman! I have 
not searched for her, as I believe mated souls are 
drawn together by the Law of Attraction. 

I scarcely know why I am writing this, or any¬ 
thing. But surely there is some sweet significance to 
our meeting last evening! Do you not feel it, too? 

In one of the fiercest battles of the Crimean War 
a shell directed at one of the forts crashed into a 
beautiful garden. The following morning it was dis¬ 
covered that from the ugly chasm made by the explo¬ 
sion of the shell there had gushed forth a spring of 
pure water, which I am told is still running. May it 
not be possible that your coming will prove to be the 
pure source of lifelong happiness and peace for both? 

As I write, I delude myself into thinking I am 
talking to you in the flesh. I visualize you clearly— 
and it brings comfort to a mind long-weary and be¬ 
wildered, unable to understand the meaning of life’s 
mysteries and tragedies. 



PAGE SIX 


JUNE FOURTEENTH 
II. 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


Your letter came this morning! It was the first 
happy morning I have had for many months. All 
day I have been as a new man. It is wonderful to 
feel the old joy of living come back! It is as tho a 
great mantel of sorrow has been lifted and I can see 
life clearly and joyously again. In such moments I 
feel very humble and grateful, saying over and over, 
“Thank you, God.” 

The stillness of the night is upon me—and a 
yearning for the human touch. I feel your invisible 
presence—yet I long for the personal touch; in life— 
in death—it seems to me there must always be a per¬ 
sonal element—the cry of the soul for its mate. 

Yes—Yes, love has entered my soul! Now, close 
your eyes and let me reach you in the silence—as my 
arms tighten around you, let me breathe into your 
willing ear the three little word that life revolves 
around—I 1-o-v-e y-o-u. I love you in every fibre of 
my being. I love the heart of you, so tender—the 
mind of you, so broad and strong—the soul of you, the 
whitest gem in any fleshly setting. I love your truth, 
which flows down to me thru your speech and bear¬ 
ing, like a beneficent brook whose source is high among 
God’s rocks and pines. I love you for your wit and 
banter, which come to brighten my philosophy. I love 
your hunger, that I may get you bread—your thirst, 
that I may search out a spring for you—your weari¬ 
ness, that I may cut boughs for your reclining. I love 
your body—for do you not dwell in it—and is it not 
the medium thru which you interpret yourself to me? 
I love you for, oh, so many things! The list is long 
and I would fain finish it not now, but in the sweet 
after-days, when we are together—TOGETHER! 

Only last night I was awakened by my own voice 
crying: “Oh God, give her to me! Give her to me!” 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE SEVEN 


Sleeping or waking, I am always calling for you—al¬ 
ways I am looking for you—in the music—in the sound 
of the waters—in the laughter of little children—in 
beautiful landscapes—in the perfume of the flowers— 
in everything I recognize YOU. 

I have not tried to forget you—for one cannot go 
back after passing the threshold of real love—it is a 
part of the Divine, the Infinite. Having known it 
once, one can never be the same again. Cheerful per¬ 
haps, but never frivolous, for there must always be 
a sad yet beautiful remembrance of the music which 
has mastered our lives—a benediction so potent we 
must ever feel its seal upon our souls. We have felt 
the rhythm of the Universal Law—the Law of Love. 

It makes me believe in the Eastern idea of rein¬ 
carnation. In our Western world reincarnation is not 
considered, but it is generally admitted that the East¬ 
ern world has produced more profound thinkers along 
religious lines. The Western world is now thinking 
about metaphysical problems, but it is too new to be 
sure of itself. 

However, no matter what the cause of my love for 
you—the result is that I am yours—soul—mind—and 
body. It is useless to fight against it, nor do I wish 
to, for it is too heavenly. Time, space, environment, 
can make no difference. I love you, my darling. 

As I sit here looking about over the sleeping flow¬ 
ers in the Plaza, writing and dreaming of you, dear 
heart, the cathedral chimes come floating out to me up¬ 
on the perfumed breeze, tolling out the hour of Four— 
in the east I see the rosy dawn of a new day—dawn has 
come—I have spent the night with you—in spirit. 
Could I have spent it more worthily? I feel better and 
stronger for my thoughts of you, and I thank you for 
the inspiration they bring. It is as tho I had traveled 
in some far distant country where only purity and 
truth are to be found. 

Eternal hope is in my heart, and every morning 
brings new hope and a more beautiful day—with which 



PAGE EIGHT 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


I send a thousand kisses as tender as my heart. 

Please always believe in my great and sincere 

love. 

JULY SIXTEENTH 
III. 

Tonight as the evening shadows were falling and 
I was waiting your coming, my lonely heart prayed 
aloud: 

The Prayer of My Lonely Heart 
“Teach me, 0 Lord, the beautiful sig¬ 
nificance of solitude. Show me that the lonely 
day was given me in order that I may live 
within myself. Grant that I may not contin¬ 
ually try to escape myself, but may study to 
be friendly with myself. Direct me, that I 
may intelligently develop all the resources 
within myself; that I may practice the art of 
meditation; that I may exercise my imagin¬ 
ation, so that it will lift me up to the beauti¬ 
ful meaning of the day; that I may learn the 
value of books, those comforters of the lonely 
—to read them and love them; that I may 
have some hobby which will call me each day 
to the hour of solitude and make it a beautiful 
ever-day. Help me to learn the courage and 
patience and self-sufficiency that will temper 
my lonliness. Grant that I may find my 
happiness not in what I have but in what I 
am. May these hours of solitude give me 
strength to make real my ideals of life.” 

My friend Ernest is giving a dinner tonight— 
a very tangible dinner—with white lights and pink 
women and women of dark beauty—with red wine 
and deft servers—and food fit for Epicurus—and 
Music — music lit with rising suns and shot with 
laughter and tears—hope and despair. 

To this dinner I was invited—but did not go, 
electing rather to take my hour with you—to open my 
lodge to your knock—to break with you the unleavened 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE NINE 


bread of love; to drink with you that rare old wine 
from the Cask of Life; to hear with you the music 
of that wondrous Lute whose strings seem ever docile 
beneath the quick, white fingers of our kindly Des¬ 
tiny—strains that would slay those who have come 
by lower paths into lesser experiences. 

And now that we are together and alone (tho be¬ 
tween our bodies a continent lies and the universal 
stars look mercilessly down), let the feast begin, the 
wine, flow, the lute release its melody. 

Wait! I will shade the light and we will be quiet 
awhile. Let us look together at what is happening in 
the fireplace, and talk little, for those who understand, 
think alike and feel alike do not need to talk—for love 
goes out to love. Souls on the same plane may be sat¬ 
isfied with mere nearness—proximity is enough. 
Words, after all, are but vehicles for ideas to ride in, 
and when once an understanding is reached, speech 
may be mostly put aside, and communication merged 
into communion. This is the soul’s highest revel, and 
the aftermath is a clearer vision, an ardor of life, an 
appreciation of the little tasks which fill the average 
day and give heart, hand and brain their legitimate 
employ. 

Oh, my love, my love, is not the silence truly 
sweet and heavenly? 

See! The log has broken in twain—and I had 
an extra one placed for tonight!—the flame’s swift 
play has lessened for sheer lack of something to feed 
upon, the embers are paling and the gray ashes are 
more and more! I fain would hold you thru the com¬ 
ing chill—but the hour is up—you were most kind 
to come—now, before we part, let me drink of love’s 
nectar, and my warm breath will put the rosebuds in 
your cheek, and another kiss will make them blossom 
out—oh, truly, truly heaven IS upon this plane! Go, 
my love, the dawn is here. 



PAGE TEN 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


SEPTEMBER FIFTEENTH 
IV. 

It is morning, and a morning among mornings— 
bright and cool and glorious. I am indebted to the 
sun for calling me so early; a cool plunge in the Gulf 
put the finishing touches to my awakening, making 
me ready for food and the subsequent out-of-doors. 

And this was the day I feared! The day from 
which I shrank as if it contained a noose suspended 
over a scaffold of rough pine! And then I remembered 
a letter written to you at midnight—the call to you 
which it contained—and—WHAT HAPPENED AFT¬ 
ERWARD. 

Where do you think I went and what do you 
think I did? 

Astride of “Starlight, 1 ” I turned his head toward 
the mountains, and rocked thru the land, serenaded by 
the native birds and companioned by thought of you, 
my love. Down green-roofed aisles of palms and red 
birch, across small valleys threaded by satin streams, 
now and then catching the strains of a native love 
song, sung by some happy youth whose heart was at¬ 
tune with love. 

I rode and rode, occasionally breathing a prayer 
of thanksgiving—the world seemed brimming with 
beauty, joy and happiness, and my heart responded 
joyously—there was no place for despondency or dark 
forebodings. 

After a few hours' riding I followed a path that 
led out of the valley and ascended to an old and ancient 
village called Amatlan. As I emerged from the sur¬ 
rounding timber, into the center of the village, I not¬ 
iced women and children scampering in all directions. 
Inquiring from a native the reason, he informed me 
that bandits had recently visited the village and car¬ 
ried off some of their women folks. 

Giving “Starlight" to the keeping of one of the 
natives, my attention was attracted to a large object 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE ELEVEN 


in the center of the square, which proved to be a hea¬ 
then god, in a standing position, holding an immense 
bowl, some three feet in diameter. This god the Aztec 
worshipped and on feast-days would fill the bowl with 
boiling oil; the Priest would then extract a human 
heart, and while still beating, drop it into the boiling 
oil. 

Shortly I was attracted by the crying of a child. 
There is nothing that goes to my heart like the cry 
of a child in pain. I located it in one of the mud-and- 
grass houses. Upon looking in, I saw lying on some 
willow sticks, supported at either end by sticks driven 
into the ground, forming a bed, the form of a child, 
around which were gathered a group of women. The 
scene reminded me of an animal that had dropped from 
thirst or starvation and was surrounded by buzzards 
(or “health officers” as they are called here) only 
waiting for the last spark of life to leave the body 
before the feast began. At one end of the crude bed 
were two lighted candels. They were truly waiting 
for death—the atmosphere itself proclaimed death. I 
cannot tell you, dear, how my heart went out to that 
child—my spirit was drawn to her and seemed to 
merge into her spirit; I felt myself between her and 
Death! Moaning feebly she tossed upon her bed. Im¬ 
pulsively, I picked up the little form and held the 
quivering body to my heart; she looked at me with 
the same wild, startled look as I have seen in the eyes 
of a wounded deer. I held her closer and felt the tiny 
form relax, the moaning ceased with a faint sob, and 
she peacefully closed her eyes, while I breathed this 
silent prayer: 

“Oh, Thou Great Infinite Power—Thou 
Great Flame of Life, of which I am but a 
spark, I open myself to Thy Healing Power 
that it may flow thru me to strengthen, build 
up and make whole this dear, dear child. Let 
Thy Power flow thru me to the end that she 
may receive Thy vivifying Health, Strength, 



PAGE TWELVE 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


Love and Life and be able to manifest them 
in her daily life. Make me a worthy channel 
for Thy Power, and use me for Good.” 

Tenderly I laid her on her bed, snuffed out the 

two candles, opened the windows and the door, so that 
God's air and sunshine could take the place of the 
awful gloom. As I was leaving, the mother clutched 
my hand—I still feel the hot tears upon it. 

I have had some experience in healing, but have 
never been so close to death before. I know that it 
was my great love for children that enabled me to save 
the child. There seems to be a certain something about 
the touch of a person thru whom the Spirit is flowing 
that carries with it an undefinable, healing power. 
Jesus and His Apostles healed by Spiritual Power, usu¬ 
ally thru the “laying on of hands.” 

At times I feel that Fate has sent me out in search 
of Truth, to purify and develop my better nature. Is 
there a law at work? I wonder! I must wonder— 
for you know that is the mysticism in my nature—I 
must think out the uncommon things of life and things 
that border on the land of the Infinite, where the door 
is always open if we will but kneel in reverence and 
faith and pass within. 

I believe the time is coming, and many things 
there are which herald its approach, when our souls 
will know and recognize each other without the inter¬ 
mediary of the physical senses. For there are pre¬ 
cious records where the soul, in obedience to unknown 
laws, seemed to rise to the very surface of humanity, 
whence it gave clearest evidence of its existence and 
power. A spiritual influence is abroad that soothes 
and comforts; and the sternest, most direct laws of 
Nature yield here and there. Men are nearer to them¬ 
selves—nearer to their brothers; in the glance of their 
eyes—in the love of their hearts, there is a deeper 
earnestness, a more tender fellowship. Their under¬ 
standing of women, children, animals, flowers, plants 
—of everything, is clearer, more profound. Life is 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTEEN 


vibrating with mysterious signs which we are begin¬ 
ning to comprehend. 

As I left the house a number of children followed. 
I found a bright-eyed lad holding “Starlight.” I not¬ 
iced that he stuttered; I applied my knowledge of psy¬ 
chology and readily corrected the defective speech— 
and left the village a hero in their eyes. 

But I did not mean to write you of this, sweet¬ 
heart, yet somehow I find myself writing you every¬ 
thing I feel. How I long for you! How terrible this 
yearning to hold you in my arms! Did you ever stop 
to think that no matter how aesthetic, how spiritual 
love may be, the final expression of every emotion is 
physical? Music must be expressed thru a physical 
agency—the beauties of Nature must be seen thru 
a physical agency. When we love, we long to kiss the 
beloved—we wish to be caressed by them—to be held 
in their arms * * * 

Sometimes you will think of me, will you not, when 
you look at the flowers—when you are at your harp 
—at twilight when you read the books we love so well 
—when you gaze at the glorious moon high up in the 
heavens—in the still hours of the night—think then 
of me, so far away, so lonely. Is this selfish? I hope 
not. My heart is too full to write more. Before we 
part—I gather you in my arms and hold you tenderly 
to me—I kiss you there—and there—and there—your 
hair, your eyes, your lips; may the last kiss keep sor¬ 
row from your mind and illness from your body. 

I leave my heart with you—with you, my beloved. 

OCTOBER THIRTY-FIRST 

V. 

The bud of romance has blossomed into a flower 
of love and left my soul as a tired flute, sending out 
music to you, but ever so faintly, because it has ex¬ 
hausted itself in love’s ecstacies. I only long to kiss 
y 0U —to kiss you! So often in my dreams you are 



PAGE FOURTEEN 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


near me—I hold you in my arms—your dear arms 
gently respond to mine—your cheek and breath against 
my face is like a beautiful rose of rare fragrance—but 
I awaken to find it only a dream—but is it a dream? 
Does not your soul come to mine, in the solitude and 
sweetness of the night? 

I remember Professor Willis telling me of his 
spirit-visits to the celestial regions—upon which he 
built, as you and I have so often admitted, his most 
beautiful creed. He tells of his spiritual or astral body 
walking and talking with the inhabitants of the Spirit 
World. 

Last night I had the most vivid dream—and I am 
wondering if it was only a dream—or whether my 
astral body really visited my celestial world—your 
boudoir. 

How my spirit got there I must leave to your 
fancy—your door was tightly locked, and no window 
was open—but there I stood, just behind you, as you 
sat at your dainty toilet table. Alas, I could not ac¬ 
quaint you of my presence. 

A transparent creation of frills, lace and dreami¬ 
ness had fallen from your shoulder, and once as you 
seemed to peer more intently into your mirror a rosy 
tinge gradually mounted to your cheek and I could not 
believe you were totally unconscious that I was kneel¬ 
ing by your side nor my warm kisses on your neck— 
or was it, perhaps, that you were simply searching for 
some imperfection upon that spotless skin! Suddenly 
you arose—the toilet was completed—and as my spirit 
took its flight, my last glimpse of you was as you knelt 
by your window—a pure, white angel, imploring 
Heaven’s pardon for all those whom you have loved! 

You may smile at my vagaries—but I beg of you, 
if it was but a dream, let me DREAM again. 




LOVE BLOSSOMS_PAGEFIFTEEN 

DECEMBER FIRST 
VI. 

Shall I tell you of a unique, tho tragic experience 
of last Sunday? 

For some reason I was not feeling quite my usual 
self, so I decided to try Nature’s tonic instead of at¬ 
tending our little community church and I struck out 
thru the village, out thru the American Colony on the 
hill at the edge of town. There I followed a path which 
led out into the hills beyond—thru the most exquisite 
ferns and wild flowers I have ever seen; there were 
great natural hanging-baskets of every imaginable 
shade of green, and long hanging mosses native to the 
tropics, suspended from the trees and fairly sweeping 
the ground. Looking up thru the foliage, with the sun 
peeping thru where the foliage was less dense, throw¬ 
ing fantastic shadows on the long, luxuriant grass I 
felt like I was in an enchanted land. How I did long 
for you then, dear heart! 

Now and then I could catch a glimpse of the 
ocean—never had it seemed so blue before. Coming 
to a little clearing at the foot of a high elevation, I 
noticed a very quaint cottage in the distance—entirely 
separated from the rest of the cottages. I despaired 
of climbing up to it, but my desire to get a closer view 
was so persistent that I did. Upon reaching it, I found 
even more beautiful scenery, with a magnificent view 
of the sea. I sat down to drink it in. The cottage was 
open, yet there seemed to be no one living in it— 
everything was still, with the atmosphere of emptiness. 
Nearby I discovered a chapel, beautiful in its simplicity 
and symmetry. A huge bronze cross sufficed for its 
only putward decoration. Drawing nearer I read 
over the door “Saint Marks.” Like the cottage, the 
chapel was also open. I ventured to the door—there 
seemed to be no one within. I caught a glimps of the 
atlaf, on which were fresh flowers and lighted candles, 
with the alluring odor of incense newly burned. I 



PAGE SIXTEEN 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


entered. The compelling beauty and peace were irre¬ 
sistible. I sat there for possibly an hour, lost in rev¬ 
eries of you, dear, when I heard a step in the organ 
loft. I turned, and to my surprise saw my good friend, 
Father Carlos, standing by the organ, which was an 
instrument of good size and promising possibilities. 
The priest began playing. He played with that quiet 
dignity and depth of tone only a master hand can bring 
out of an organ. He played a fragment from the 
“Messiah,” then the simple “Rosary.” Suddenly he 
stopped playing and I saw a figure had appeared in 
the doorway—the figure of a woman, tall and strik¬ 
ing—I have never seen such a wealth of black hair, 
altho it was mostly hidden by a beautiful Spanish man¬ 
tilla; her eyes were black as night, radiant in their 
depth and intensity. The face was not beautiful—in 
the sense of regularity of features. The nose was not 
satisfied with being simply aquiline, but tipped off 
into a point which made one feel that blue blood had 
run riot over symmetry in its determination to dom¬ 
inate in stamping traditions. 

She sat down in a pew near the altar. I watched 
her, and there seemed an air of mysticism about her 
—spiritualty, of a wholesome kind—the kind that 
takes you by the hand and says: “There is no super¬ 
natural; everything is natural; to the uninitiated 
things seem super-natural only because they are too 
subtle for coarse minds to grasp.” 

The priest came down from the organ and spoke 
to this lovely lady, then returned to the vestry room 
to dress for the four o'clock vespers. I determined to 
remain. There was an air of peace about the place 
that I could not define. As you know, I am not a 
Catholic, but I can well understand the power of the 
Catholic Church—its hold on humanity—its scholarly, 
artistic minds. I was glad to be in this wonderful 
silence, or presence (as the Catholics call it). Per¬ 
haps after all it is a crystalization of the higher 
thought. If it be true that thoughts are things, sub- 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE SEVENTEEN 


jectively speaking, from a purely scientific or meta- 
physiacl viewpoint, there should be a gathering of the 
Ether—the continuous vibrations of sound would sure¬ 
ly be registered in such a peace, only our human ears 
are not sensitized to catch the full symphony. We 
catch the theme, however—and we feel more than we 
know. It is not imagination, nor self-hypnosis, this 
feeling of that beautiful “something” in the Catholic 
church; perhaps it is felt more in the Catholic churches 
because there is no set hour—the rich and poor, the 
old and young—not at one appointed hour, but at all 
hours, may betake themselves into that splendid silence 
where peace is found. 

The worshippers assembled for the vesper service; 
it was inspiring to watch them as they crowded round 
the quaint little shrine—now and then one rising from 
the group to light a candle—an echo of a rosary against 
a pew—incense—a Gregorian chant—a beautiful girl 
kissing the feet of Christ—an old man limping rever¬ 
ently up the aisle—a candle sputtering out—a flower 
lifting its fragrance between the blessed candles on 
the altar—altogether it seemed to me I had never seen 
anything so mysteriously beautiful and impressive. I 
began to realize that the Catholics have truly preserved 
the sacred and subtle symbolism of the East—that 
glorious East of Egypt and India, where just these 
forms and ceremonies were observed, long before the 
coming of Christ. I felt a wave of thankfulness for 
these permanent and fixed ideals of beauty in the 
minds of humanity—I found myself praying quite un¬ 
consciously—that was the charm of it—prayer was 
unconsciously induced in this atmosphere and amid 
these surroundings. 

After the service, I invited my friend the Priest 
to dine with me. As we walked home together, it 
seemed to me that he too, holy man that he was, was 
consumed by a great passion. He was tall, dark, and 
quite young, with a sadness in his face which made 
my heart go out to him in sympathy and understand- 



PAGE EIGHTEEN 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


ing. We talked but little during the evening. It was 
a silent, dignified union of two fellow souls, yet with 
no word or hint of the past—nor his nor mine. After 
our simple repast he left me. 

Several days passed, and I heard nothing from 
him. But last evening at dusk there was a gentle 
knock at my door. I opened it, and there stood the 
Priest, gazing out to sea. He asked me to look at the 
boats sailing out of the harbor. He offered me his 
glasses, and said quietly: “Look at the boat directly 
in front of us. Do you see that beautiful, sad face on 
the deck? Do you recognize her as the lovely lady 
you admired last Sunday in the chapel? Let me read 
you a part of a letter she has just left for me/’ and 
this is what he read: 

“Beloved: Since I find it impossible to 
longer conceal my love for you, I am taking 
what seems the best course of ending what 
could only harm us both and bring shame 
upon our beloved Church. I am going far 
away into another country, hoping to forget 
you—or at least to live in remembrance only,” 

There was more he read, but it only sounded like 
incoherent words—he was too perturbed to read dis¬ 
tinctly. For a moment he bowed his head on his arms; 
then quite suddenly he regained command of himself, 
and abruptly left me—as tho afraid of confiding too 
much; before I could speak he was walking—or stag¬ 
gering rather—down the path—toward the sea, with 
all the light gone from his soul! 

Who could better understand than I! I knew only 
too well the dull, terrible reaction that would come to 
him after the first realization of loss—then a little 
later the uprising of the soul, as it were, gripped with 
bitterness and rebellion; then still another reaction— 
that of utter nothingness—a sadness beyond human 
understanding or endurance. He is a priest. I am 
only a man; it would seem impertinent, indelicate to 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE NINETEEN 


go and reveal my own heart to him—yet I long to say 
something to him, that he may know that at least we 
suffer in common. It was the sacred cloth that stood 
between him and the woman who truly loved him. 

MARCH THIRTY-FIRST 
VII. 

Because I wanted to be alone with you, my dear, 
I went down to the beach today. There is something 
in that sea of blue that always comforts me. It is 
like standing on the Kansas prairie at night, with no 
lights but the stars, listening to the wind making mel¬ 
ody thru the harp-strings of the grass! It seems like 
there should be a tide on the prairie—it is so like the 
sea. Beside the vastness of it one’s little self shrinks 
into nothingness, and with it one’s little troubles. 
What room is there for a human sorrow beside any¬ 
thing so great as this? Why, you could take your 
heart in the hollow of your hand—so little a thing it 
is—and yet all the trouble in the world arises from 
it. Ah, there is room enough for all our joys—but 
even the sea is neither wide enough nor deep enough 
to hold our pain! 

Still, it is only thru suffering that we grow—and 
when we suffer enough we are great. When we ex¬ 
press it we are artists; and when we cannot, we are 
only poor, human children, stricken dumb with grief. 

But what is the use of it all! I may cry out—but 
who will hear? There is so much grief in the world 
that the sound of my voice would be drowned and lost 
—as one wave is deadened by the majestic chords of 
surf which crash superbly on the shore. 

A storm was coming up—and I watched it— 
sweeping down on gray wings from the north. A 
single gull sped in advance of it—strong, stately, 
straight as an arrow, to some more kindly harbor. 
There were no fetters binding him to earth—he was 
free to sail thru measureless heavens, across unlim¬ 
ited seas. The waves are bound, surge and toss as 



PAGE TWENTY 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


they may—they belong to Earth for ever and ever, 
until the last day of eternity. I belong to you, dear 
heart, who are as free as the gull. 

There was a tiny shell at my feet. I picked it up, 
and by holding it to my ear could hear the sound of 
the breakers, so divinely soft and sweet—I fancied 
you were murmuring sweet encouragements in my ear. 
There was no hint of the storm in that far-off melody 
—only blue skies and tropic islands, sapphire depth of 
sea, dazzling reaches of sunshine. The little shell 
knew nothing of the tempests that sweep the waters 
and lash them into foam—nothing of shipwreck or 
loss—and so, had I the appointment of your life, 
’twould be as free from tempest—as the mist upon 
the waters disappears before the sun, so shall all ad¬ 
versity melt before the shining radiance of my great 
love for you. 


JUNE THIRD 
VIII. 

Many days have passed, and not a word from 
you! I am bewildered by your silence. 

This evening I heard the children calling in the 
sands. I went out to romp with them, expecting a 
splendid frolic—but there was a discordant note in 
everything; the glare of the setting sun upon the 
waters hurt my eyes—the sea lost all its beauty; the 
wind was rude and persistent; the rippling music was 
lacking in the laughter of the children. But as I 
write, I hear the whip-poor-will’s call, and the fireflies 
are lighting up the gathering shadows. 

Tonight, how different! The long shore stretches 
before me—there is no glare—the evening breeze just 
arrived, bringing the soft, balmy air from the ocean. 
A young moon is in the heavens—how gently, yet mag¬ 
nificently, does it declare the glory of God! To be 
close to Nature in this very real sense is to lose all 
petty vanities—all forms of smallness—and to become 
as simple as a little child, rejoicing with Nature, 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE TWENTY-ONE 


breathing the harmonies of the Infinite in reverence 
and understanding—knowing that to those who have 
the ear to hear there is no solitude—no loneliness, even 
in the most profound silence. Perhaps it is not only 
a matter of listening—but of being less personal—just 
of losing ourselves in the wonder of Nature, as chil¬ 
dren lose themselves in their play! 

Who do you think called today? The little girl from 
Amatlan! Her father brought her in, in an old ox¬ 
cart, drawn by two large oxen. She made a beautiful 
picture, sitting upon the dried grass and moss in the 
cart—with a large basket of mangoes by her side, her 
face peeping out over a lap piled with flowers—her 
dark hair covering her shoulders—her large, beautiful, 
black eyes sparkling as she handed me the flowers, 
saying: ”For my Senor.” I took both child and flow¬ 
ers in my arms—then she turned up two rosebud lips 
to be kissed. Her name is Amparo and she is twelve 
years of age. This evening I told her of you, and 
all she said was “Una Angel.” She is by my side as 
I write this. I am keeping her over tonight, and to¬ 
morrow I am to visit the village again, as she has a 
little friend who is sick. I told her not to grieve, as 
I will charm the pain away. 

You do not know how I love these little jewels— 
they are the real gems and jewels of life. 

Write often, dear, and love me ever— 

JULY EIGHTH 
IX. 

Another month has passed and no word from you 
—you cannot be ill or I would feel it—pray what is it? 

To write is such a little thing to ask— 

All these days I have waited for you, but the 
evening closes in upon me again and finds me alone 
with my thoughts. There is a suffering so deep that 
nothing can relieve at the time. 

You need not expect me to put on paper the par¬ 
ticular happenings which make this a black day in my 



PAGE TWENTY-TWO 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


calendar—indeed, it is not necessary, for I think you 
sense it from afar. But this is written: When a 
dream-child, brought into the world by the travail of 
one who loves his kind, is strangled by the strong, 
cruel hands of Greed and Selfishness, it cuts deep into 
the soul and curtains the sky. 

I will say no more, lest I might be guilty of a tone 
which I hope never to consciously use toward you. 

AUGUST SECOND 
X. 

No tree’s fresh verdure cools so much; no fountain 
so quenches the thirst; sunshine, moonlight and thou¬ 
sands of stars do not so lighten darkness, as you, dear¬ 
est, lighten my heart. Oh, to be one moment near you 
—so much eternity in itself—such a moment would 
dally with eternity—taking it prisoner (in sport) to 
let it loose again and re-capture it—and what joy 
should I not meet in eternity, with your eternal spiirt 
receiving me into its glory! 

Manlike, I love you physically—love your glorious 
body and splendid grace; I love your red lips and your 
great, deep eyes—the beautifully shaped hands that 
press my temple—and yet, loving you this way with 
all the intensity of my being, there is still something 
in you that masters any human emotion! It is not 
only your clean, dominant mind, but a silent, powerful 
call of the soul, which speaks to and commands the 
more aesthetic part of my nature, leaving in me an 
ecstacy of reverence and adoration. It is an illumina¬ 
tion, burning the spirit of all things beautiful about 
me. 

Today I feel infinitely sad—yet with a sadness 
that has an element of beauty, for it brings not only 
the longing for you, but the desire for all things good 

and pure. It is not a sadness of the ordinary kind_ 

of petty discontent—but rather of the type that might 
be called Divine discontent—a burning into the very 
soul—a feeling of profund sadness, a terrible wistful- 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE TWENTY-THREE 


ness, a big tenderness—with the longing for under¬ 
standing of the enigma of life—a sadness for all human 
suffering—particularly for those who love and love in 
vain! 

There is nothing more cruel than the sufferings of 
youth. When old and atrophied, our sensibilities dor¬ 
mant, we can be resigned, but a young person must 
be either sexless or saintly to conquer all emotion—and 
young people who are normal are neither. 

The desire to possess the beloved completely, in 
body as well as in spirit, is nothing of which to be 
ashamed. It is a cheap vulgarity that puts so much 
stress and mystery upon a simple law of nature. The 
persistent calling for one's mate is as natural as the 
rhythm of the sea. The only consideration should be 
that of adjustment and proper directing. Passion 
should be reserved as something sacred—to be given 
only in true love—and much is forgiven those who love. 
A marriage without love is only a tawdry bargain; 
neither priest nor law can make it clean or honorable. 

Certainly no one could love more than I love you— 
yet had Fate been kind, no tie, either legal or religious, 
could give a greater dignity or reverence to my love 
for you—for I know that a bigger power has linked 
my soul to yours—the Law of Love—which even your 
Christian Bible acknowledges to be God. 

In love lies the remedy for many of the economic 
problems of the day. 

Do you know that longing for the real and gentle 
things of life? That yearning for home—home in its 
sweetest and most natural sense? I sit alone with a 
mental picture of “just you and me"—sitting together 
by the wood fire, quite apart from the world, with its 
ceaseless grind and greed, and now and then I pic¬ 
ture you (such is my fancy) stepping softly to a little 
crib that holds another little “you," while the big 
flames in the fireplace leap up with warm enthusiasm, 
responding to our simple joys. I see you bring that 
precious little bundle of tenderness—the expression of 



PAGE TWENTY-FOUR 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


our mutual love—to the fireside, where you sit down 
in a big rocking chair, garbed in snowy, dainty, 
“fluffy” things, singing a faint lullahy—a low, sweet 
something which I want to believe is that lovely: 
“Mighty Like a Rose”—then quietly I steal out into 
the autumn night to fetch a log for My Lady’s fire. I 
reenter our little home and stand upon the threshold 
struck dumb with gratitude and awe! Gratitude to 
you, my darling, and to God. Then, and then only, 
am I a man in all truth—for no man can really feel 
the best in his nature until he has stood in the door¬ 
way of his own home, holding communion and under¬ 
standing with the woman who has changed her life 
to reproduce him. 

But why torture myself with dreams that may 
never materialize? Why do our minds lead us into 
such bliss, only to cast us back into desolation and 
despair? I long for a dreamless sleep—a sleep where 
I may feel nothing but rest and forgetfulness, if only 
for an hour! 

If thoughts are things there must be some lovely 
things around you! If thoughts materialize in the 
subtle realms of the Ether, then about you there can 
only be the sweetest and loveliest things in the world, 
calling to you very earnestly, very gently, yet strong 
in their purity and good-will, bringing blessings (for 
all good thoughts are that), soothing, comforting, and 
guarding the way for you—a way that must always 
be bright and beautiful, no matter what the cost to 
me— 

I dare not say more, because I feel the old longing, 
the old persistent yearning for you creeping over me— 

When you awake, may God make it a happy dawn 
for you, and not a night like this. 

SEPTEMBER ONE 
XI. 

Your letter gave me more delight than anything 
in the world, save your own dear self, could do. 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE TWENTY-FIVE 


I have already forgiven you, for I am conscious 
of the truth of the old saying that he who cannot for¬ 
give others breaks the bridge over which he himself 
must pass, for every man hath need to be forgiven. 

If, dearest love, you ever find in my letters a 
gloomy tone, attribute it to my imprisonment in this 
place—to my troubles—but not to any uneasiness I 
feel as to your devotion to me. Should I not dishonor 
myself by doubting you ? 

Truly, as you say, love is a flower needing culti¬ 
vation. Perhaps, therefore, after all, this separation 
may work wonders for us both. Personally I have 
been buffeted about so much in these last years—I 
h^ve lived in an intellectual and moral atmosphere so 
useless—that I fear my self control has been almost 
wrecked by it—and I cannot bear to lose the present 
in vain perplexities about the future. 

Write to me whenever possible, for everything is 
welcome that comes from you, my beloved. 

OCTOBER FIFTH 
XII. 

There is a sweetness in the air today. 

All things sing to me of you, dear heart. I hear 
your name in every breeze that blows and see your 
face in every flower. I cannot wholly lose you, even 
tho you do deny yourself to me. 

Yesterday morning as I rode thru the heavy forest 
in the Zacanixtle district, it seemed to me that some¬ 
one must have been telling a love story in the woods, 
for it sang of love—love, and love only—tho I do not 
remember hearing it until I knew you. 

But let me tell you of another reason for my joy 
this morning—a letter from my Uncle Roland. It 
brought me so much pleasure, carrying with it such 
an atmosphere of love, courage and harmony. He is 
indeed a wonderful man and I love him dearly and I 



PAGE TWENTY-SIX 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


think you will also—“for to meet him is to love him”’— 
his “aura” is so charged with fellowship and like- 
ability that all who come in contact with him are af¬ 
fected. Some men (and your dear sex also) send out 
in their “aura” such gloomy vibrations that you feel 
it when you come in contact with them. Others radiate 
good cheer, courage, friendship, love, and happiness— 
which are reflected in those they meet. Many people 
manifest these desirable qualities so strongly that they 
are noticeable the moment they enter a room—they 
carry their atmosphere with them—and draw out these 
same qualities in others. Such is my dear uncle, and I 
know you will agree with me when you meet him. He 
is the master of “Rosemary Farm”—an estate a short 
distance out of the Village of Huntington, on the Sound 
—a home of charm and beauty—at the back of the man¬ 
sion, overlooking the waters, he has erected an open 
air theater. During the war he gathered together the 
leading talent in music and dramatic art—the pageants 
and performances were wonderful—I will not dwell 
upon them here—but they added many thousands of 
dollars to the Red Cross treasury. I am enclosing a 
small print of this theatre. 

Then, too, I have frolicing around me two little 
playmates whom I love dearly—Helen (twelve) and 
her sister Victoria (eight)—they are adorable—I call 
them my little rosebuds! 

Is there anything in the world to compare with a 
rose! The earth is glorious with them tonight—be¬ 
neath my window a stately bush flaunts a wealth of 
yellow blossoms which make a sweet, fragrant peace, 
even in the dark. I can fancy that yellow mass of 
beauty some fair Atlanta, with her golden hair stream¬ 
ing like a veil in the wind behind her! 

My garden is carefully tended — but there is a 
wider, dearer one on every roadside—there no man 
tills—but masses of pink-andwhite blossoms are waft¬ 
ed, like sunrise clouds. I have been among them all 
day—the thorny, sweet, wild-roses, with all the fra 



I 





/ 













LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE TWENTY-SEVEN 


grance of their garden sisters, but none of their pre¬ 
tensions! There are some, too, in priestly garb— 
white and spotless, swinging perfumed censors—tiny 
ministers of grace to all the roses in the garden! One 
in particular is austere and forbidding—he evidently 
frowns on all gayety. I have transplanted a tearful 
wild rose, who kneels at his feet in a guilty confes¬ 
sional ! 

There is a yellow rose, suffering social ostracism 
on account of its color—it is as fair, as sweet as any 
of the others—but because pink is the prevailing color 
it must needs be cast aside. Weeping, it sits alone in a 
dusty, deserted corner, drooping and dejected. There 
is need for the priestly comfort here—but there is no 
heaven for yellow roses—only for pink-and-white! 

There is no color among them that is not copied 
from the sky—it seems to me some spirit of light must 
come down from the clouds with a pallette of sunrise 
tints, to paint each separate rose a different shade. I 
think I saw the fairy artist at work this morning, for 
just at dawn I went out into the rose garden, walking 
softly lest I should disturb their sleep, and close by the 
fence I heard a gentle rustle of leaves. I looked down, 
and in the first faint beams of light from the rising 
sun I caught a glimmer of gossamer wings and just a 
flash of rainbow in the dewey mist above the grass. 

At one time there was a corner of my garden 
that caused me much anxiety. It seemed that alien 
hands had interfered with my sowing and dropped 
strange seeds in the ground. The weeds thrived and 
the flowers died, and where I planted heartsease there 
came up a nettle—but now pink roses reign supreme 
and enchanting gardenias perfume the whole garden. 

In fact, the garden so distinctly, so sweetly wafts 
your spirit to me that Helen and Victoria are the only 
persons privileged to gather the blossoms. I believe 
that when God wishes to preserve one of his favorite 
creations he gives it into worthy hands. Besides, all 
lovers understand flowers. 



PAGE TWENTY-EIGHT 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


NOVEMBER NINTH 
XIII 

The hour is late. It is cold, damp and lonely. The 
sky is banked with dark and gloomy clouds; the 
waters are churning up an angry foam. I feel a 
“Norte” will visit us before morning—and God be with 
those who are caught on the waters. 

It is getting cooler—the wind is rushing thru the 
open door and out the windows—I must close all 
openings and draw the blinds. How the vibrations of 
the atmosphere affect me—I am so lonely, so miserably 
weary, so hungry for you that I must write my 
thoughts. Your soul must have entered the cottage 
upon the wings of the advancing storm—to be with 
and comfort me. If you are here on the astral plane, 
gather me to your breast as the mother gathers the 
tired child after a hard day’s play. There, t-h-e-r-e, 
that is heavenly. Your perfumed breath upon my cheek 
wafts me to the dreamy, dangerous land of the Lotus- 
eaters. 

Now—the storms of passion have been out-sailed 
—the thunder of protests have died down, and the 
calm of twilight comes with your soothing caresses. 
The storm has disappeared and left in its wake a crim¬ 
son sky, flecked with gold—and jocund day stands on 
tiptoe on the mountain-top announcing its arrival! 

You may wonder why I write so seriously and so 
often in an impersonal way. It is because my thoughts 
of you are so pure that when I begin personally I un¬ 
consciously drift into the impersonal—because to me 
love is a sacred thing—so a part of the Divine that 
my thoughts are of God and you, all in one breath. 

Before me are some flowers—a few simple pansies 
that Helen brought, and some bright-faced daisies 
from Victoria’s innocent hands—they are so varied— 
they seem to speak a big truth in their simple way— 
of the versatility of the Universe—of its myriad col¬ 
ors and silent call toward the beautiful. Flowers are 
to me the sweet symbol of Universal Love—for are 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE TWENTY-NINE 


not flowers and all green and fragrant things just 
that? 

You ask me of my present life—it is very simple; 
I live more and more alone—more with things than 
with people. A few neighbors and friends have dis¬ 
covered my interest in metaphysics—and my love for 
healing. They say such studies are impractical. I do 
not care, for I know that unthinking people are al¬ 
ways classifying, separating different qualities of the 
mind—they are not far-seeing enough to realize that 
the metaphysical mind is often a scientific mind; for 
metaphysics is a higher form of mental science. 

So-called “dreamers’’ have often proven them¬ 
selves to be the advanceguard of civilization. But it 
is ever thus—all unusual and complex natures are 
understood by the many—and beloved by the few. 

I am taking up a new study as a possible means 
of diversion—it is psychology and therapeutics. 

I know of no greater good than that of doing 
good to others—and especially in relieving pain and 
illness. The last week I have been reading modern 
psychology on the development of the subjective fac¬ 
ulties. As I see it, there are rays from the subjective 
mind which can be likened to a colored fountain, send¬ 
ing forth untold beauty in the form of different lights 
which needs must have a color. In fact, these colors 
are thoughts sent out by the mind into the aura—each 
thought has its own color vibration—I have seen col¬ 
ored plates of such thoughts—of love, hate, health, 
music, etc.—it is most wonderful. 

Advanced thinkers may now more frankly di¬ 
vulge their ideas, without the criticism and cynicism 
which was accorded their predecessors. Formerly ad¬ 
vanced thinkers were afraid df seeming eccentric—in 
the glorious now there is more scope and opportunity 
for the vagrant theories—because we are continually 
advancing in splendid leaps along scientific lines. 
What will be the harvest? I wonder! 

How narrow will seem the so-called conservative 
thinker, who prides himself upon his sanity! A true 




PAGE THIRTY 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


and balanced mental outlook shows us we are now 
facing unlimited possibilities — that is, if we can 
measure the future by the past. No thinking person 
now dares to scoff, whereas a few years ago scoffing 
was popular. 

Just see what science has brought forth in the 
last year in Radio. Some evenings I call the natives 
in and tune up my radio—giving them their own music 
from Mexico City or the New York concerts. They 
walk around the instrument on my desk, with eyes 
and mouth wide open; and sometimes I give a few 
healing demonstrations—then they call me—well, they 
see me bring music out of the heavens—and see me 
heal with my hands—Hearing and seeing is believing 
—but not understanding always, by all races. 

But I am wandering away from the thought al¬ 
ways in my heart—YOU—the reason is I find I have 
so much to analyze—so much to discuss with you. You 
yourself possess a clear, analytical mind—not common 
in men—most uncommon in women—you are a lover 
of truth for truth’s sake—you have a nature sincere, 
loyal, transparently pure, with an intellect almost un¬ 
feminine in its cold clarity. To this you join an artis¬ 
tic, loving, sensuous temperament, and are endowed 
with a thousand charms of face and form—in very 
truth, you seem one favored by the gods—created 
only for sunshine, happiness and love! Having met 
you, and known you—I cannot be satisfied with any¬ 
one less inspiring—so I choose to live alone, remaining 
true to one thing in life, at least—even if it is to be 
only a memory. 

JANUARY TWELFTH 
XIV 

This is such a beautiful Sunday morning! The 
air is so full of life and sweetness that it is painful to 
go indoors. I am loath to attend services this morn¬ 
ing. Some day I shall erect a place of worship with- 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTY-ONE 


out a roof, for services on such days as this. I shall 
suggest to Uncle Roland that he offer Rosemary Thea¬ 
tre to the village of Huntington for Sunday services. 

Come with me, my love, and we will play church 
—we will go down yonder under the large palms at 
the edge of the beach—here we are! Is it not glorious 
here? You sit at my feet, so that I may look into 
your beautiful eyes—eyes that are a source of my 
inspiration. 

How beautiful the murmuring of the gentle 
breezes thru the palms, mingling with them music of 
the waves—our choir; our congreation? The flock 
of sea-gulls! I shall be the preacher—will give only a 
short sermon, as I do not wish to be robbed of the 
music of your voice. 

Can you not feel the warmth and tenderness of 
Nature, vibrating in and around us? How true it is 
that beauty is the mark God sets upon virtue. At 
such moments as this wa are “lost in the human and 
found in the divine.” My heart is so alive with the 
beauty of it and your dear presence. 

It is my love for you that beautifies, refines and 
creates. And as God is Love and Truth and Beauty— 
I know of no better text for my sermon than “The 
Beauty of God.” 

How the words Love, Truth and Beauty delight 
the hearts of all who hear them! One wonders what is 
in these mere words to exert such a wonderful power 
upon the human soul. Love, Truth and Beauty are 
inseparable and elementary. The world we see is the 
manifestation of Beauty—the outcome of Love's de¬ 
sire to manifest itself. The different degrees of Beauty 
which exist are united by that harmony which under¬ 
lies them all—since all together make the one Mani¬ 
festation. Love is the great Creator—and every lover 
is able to create the same love to which the Source 
of Love has given birth! 

Love become beautiful the more truly it loses it¬ 
self in its beloved, for true love shrinks at no sacrifice, 



PAGE THIRTY-TWO 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


endures all seeming reverses, and sees in all torments 
inflicted by its beloved only higher steps to attain to 
highest heaven! True love withholds no forgiveness , 
however great the injury received. 

God is love and he has realized it in the heart of 
man. When man becomes an imitator of God he also 
realizes his love in the heart of the fellowman who 
has become the manifestation of the Invisible. From 
this time, the renewed man becomes the great Healer 
—filling everyone with his own joy and sympathy and 
virtue and light. His presence becomes as the brood¬ 
ing wings that shelter the frightened fledglings. 

Beloved, have you felt my nearness this morning 
—have you been conscious of my warm hand-clasp 
across the miles that separate us in the flesh? I love 
you tenderly—and this shall be recorded as the loveli¬ 
est morning in my life! Yet how little of love even a 
lover understands—I send you an ocean of love—and 
upon every ripple a kiss. 

FEBRUARY FIFTH 
XV 

You will be interested in the tragic happening of 
last evening—and the sad story following: 

The night was unusually cold. The first rain of 
the season poured down in torrents. I read far into 
the night. Many times I thought I heard some one 
crying—calling out—in the inky darkness; but lis¬ 
tening, I could hear nothing but the rain beating upon 
the window panes. I decided it was a trick of my 
imagination. Finally I put down my book and began 
arranging the fire for the night; then I distinctly 
heard at my window a broken, piteous sob, and “Let 
me in—let me in—Oh, Mary Mother of God, help me! 

I rushed to the door and threw it open. There, 
standing in my doorway, was a beautiful Spanish girl 
—wet and shivering—with a look of the most pro¬ 
found sorrow and wild despair I have ever seen upon 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTY-THREE 


a human face. She looked faint from suffering. I 
lifted her in my arms and placed her in a chair in 
front of the fire, calling to my servant for brandy. In 
a few minutes she began talking excitedly in Spanish. 
I begged her to compose herself and quietly rest, but 
I saw she was too completely unstrung and over¬ 
wrought to remain silent. I threw fresh logs upon the 
embers and brewed a cup of tea for her. 

This was her story: Her parents were the propri¬ 
etors of a little Curio Shop down on Estado Street, 
where many tourists came to purchase souvenirs. 
When she was fourteen, they sent her to school to 
San Antonio; she had returned at eighteen, to help in 
the shop. * 

She told me of the handsome foreigners who came 
to the Shop and how they all tried to woo her—tell¬ 
ing her of her dark eyes and ravishing figure—many 
of them even trying to bribe her to leave her parents 
and go with them to New York, London or Paris— 
the big cities she so longed to see! But she loved none 
of them and was deaf to all entreaties. 

Then one day—she was standing in the doorway 
the one real man she had ever seen! He was gazing 
at her—not impertinently, as others had done, but 
gently, with a great longing in his eyes. Unconsciously 
her eyes responded to his. After her customers had 
left, he came over and spoke to her in a voice which 
seemed to penetrate her lonely heart: “Please show me 
some postcards to send home to my little boys.” He 
was married! But she didn't care—all she knew was 
that she loved him. 

Some people laugh at love at first sight—and yet 
is there anything more real and true? She felt there 
was a bond of sympathy and understanding between 
them. He went away, and for some days she did not 
see him, except in her dreams—yet somehow she knew 
he would come back. 

A month passed, and no word. One evening at 
twilight she left the shop and wandered down to the 



PAGE THIRTY-FOUR 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


sea to watch the boats coming into the harbor, when 
she became conscious of an even, steady step behind 
her. To use her own excited words: “I turned, and 
there standing behind me was my lover! We walked 
on quietly to the water’s edge, talking of commonplace 
things—impersonal things, yet we both were conscious 
we were saying things we did not care to say, just to 
cover up things we did not dare to say—I knew that 
his thoughts were mine. He watched me eagerly and 
seemed somewhat surprised to find me educated—he 
had not expected this in a shop girl of this port! We 
walked until the stars began to twinkle in the heavens, 
suddenly he stopped, and said: T am a married man— 
a successful one—and yet I know that after all, there 
is only one thing that brings real happiness—and that 
is mutual love. It is the truly wise people who realize 
this—those who are not the idle, senseless dreamers.’ 
With this he turned and whispered: T love you’—and I 
found myself in his arms, bewildered, consumed with 
a new emotion too subtle to express—a love of the 
soul—a love I feel when I go to communion in the 
early mornings at the altar of our Lord—and a great 
contentment—just to be held in his arms and forget 
everything. For hours we strolled together along the 
shore, lost in love’s ecstacies, until his boat gave warn¬ 
ing of sailing—and out of what had become to us the 
Sweetest Port in the World, his boat went, taking with 
it everything that life held dear to me. 

“After many days he returned, just as true and 
splendid as before, but with a look of sorrow in his 
eyes. I guessed his trouble. He loved me, but was 
married, and the full realization of that fact was upon 
him. 

“Well—for a whole year he came and went, and 
never was there purer, more sacred love between man 
and woman. He treated me with respect and rever¬ 
ence, and that year shall ever remain in my thought 
as a blessed rosary. 

“One week ago he came for the last time—he sug- 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTY-FIVE 


gested dining at the Manhattan—we went—the eve¬ 
ning was exquisite, music, happy lovers, dancing, utter 
abandonment of everything to sweet and human joy! 
After dinner we strolled into the Plaza, listening to 
the music. The full moon was just peeping over the 
roof of the cathedral, outlined against the dark blue 
of the heavens. The young tender roses sent out their 
enticing fragrance—everything was warm, palpitat¬ 
ing, throbbing with Youth and Love and Nature—well 
—I cannot tell you—only we did not go home that 
night—for many glorious nights we forgot the world, 
home, everything, except love and each other. When 
we said Goodbye, upon the boat, I think our hearts 
broke—we both felt a premonition of finality—for I 
knew that when my father learned the truth he would 
kill one or both of us. I begged my lover not to leave 
the boat, but he was insistent and fearless, refusing to 
let me face the consequences alone. We had scarcely 
stepped off the boat when my father spied us—and 
swiftly, surely, with tiger-like ferocity, he sprang 
upon my beloved, and plunged a stiletto into his heart 
—the heart of my love—he fell dead at my feet, with¬ 
out a struggle, and seeing my father's insane rage, I 
ran as fast as I could into the darkness, wandering 
and groping until I found your cottage—I was afraid 
to call too loud—that is why you did not hear me at 
first. So now I am safe for a while at least—but what 
have I to live for? I hope to die as swiftly as he did, 
but I have not the courage to put an end to my own 
life." 

She slipped out of the chair, at my feet, with the 
look of death on her face—she had fainted. I picked 
her up and gently placed her on the bed, where she 
now lies, asleep from exhaustion, but calling out in 
her dreams for her dead lover. 

Here she shall remain until I can decide that is 
best to be done. She must get away—she would never 
be forgiven. 

I sit here writing this to you, dearest, believing 



PAGE THIRTY-SIX 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


you will understand and feel my deep sympathy for 
this poor child of Nature—and as I write I remember 
the lines of the Indian sage: 'In our Far East the old 
religion holds—that man rises nearer to God, for a 
brief time becoming as God, in the last ecstacy of 
human love.” 

Wrong she is from our conventional perspective— 
"where we make mistakes but other people commit 
sins”—yet in her great love may it not be that she 
has come nearer to God than many of those who judge 
her—for is not Love the fundamental principal of all 
religions-? 

MARCH TENTH 
XVI 

What a still day—no on comes—a single tiny bug 
creeps on and off my paper. 

I stop my pen to hold spiritual converse with you 
—the flower of my soul—the spring of clear water that 
sparkles in the sunlight of my affections. 

Morning has come—the hour of our parting—yet 
you are here with me. Your spirit has not wandered 
from me—it has been all night resting with me, else 
I could not have such clear, bold, lucid thoughts; the 
warm and gushing love that is swelling my heart is 
crushed back—tho leaping, dashing, surging to and 
fro, it is kept back. 

Oh that our lips could meet for one moment! 
That your head could be pillowed on my breast—not 
that our spirits are not joined—but physical contact 
gives the soul wings to fly wheresoever it likes! We 
are almost lost in the far reaching out—and down in 
the mystic past we tread—we touch hands—join 
hearts—stand together—simply Man and Woman— 
developing our God-like nature in our affection—just 
as He knew we would! 

Dear heart, your love has seized my whole soul^ 
and I am a willing captive. It is such a joy to live in 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTY-SEVEN 


this love—I live to make others feel me—feel my 
presence! Now I feel the soul, the presence of the will 
of another—and that other loves me! What comfort! 
Build up, Oh love, this thought, and it grows as all 
things in Nature grows—in silence and in tears. 

How I would like to lift the veil of the future 
and read my destiny—written on the scroll of fate. 

I see you as my spirit Bride—my love—my wife 
—my all. You reflect my thoughts and if they are not 
what they should be, you correct them, give them 
proper tone—more life—more color. In your pres¬ 
ence I am held by the Law of Love—in you I see 
Nature, draped in all that is beautiful—there is no 
winter in your love—spring flowers are ever blooming. 

I now fully see and comprehend what it is to live 
with you on another sphere—to grow in it until it is 
a part of us, calling to us thru the past and present 
—richly laden with blessings—the light is so clear— 
I do not like to leave my pen. My head is on your 
breast—my heart beating against yours—I feel your 
kisses on my lips—what a thrill of happiness goes thru 
me—1 live—I love-1 love you-. 

I can go out into the dark world and you shall be 
my light; I will warm myself by the light of your 
heart—I will feed from your soul—bread—I will bathe 
in the clear waters of your intellect. 

I gather you close to me—let us kiss in spirit— 
we will say there is not for us another parting nor 
adieu—but a good-night, awaiting the bright morning. 
Baptism of Love! We walk upright, arm-in-arm, in to 
the Garden of Love! 

APRIL SIXTH 
XVII 

Your letter grieves me deeply—you say life is losing 
all its warmth—its joy—it brightness—that you are 
losing interest in things you formerly received pleas¬ 
ure in—that you realize the frightful misery of those 
who love and must live without love-. 






PAGE THIRTY-EIGHT 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


I do not quite understand-or is it that at last 

your soul is awaking to the love I have been pouring 
out to it these many many months? I beg of you take 
comfort from this hour, for I know of what I write: 

“Life is the Soul's Adventure and Opportunity.” 

Life and Hope and Courage are renewed with each 
day's sun—I believe that tomorrow will be another day 
—the gold of its morning your riches—the glow of its 
evening your benediction. 

We all spend the greater part of our lives under 
the shadow of an event that has yet to come to pass. 
The best of life is still ahead—it always is—. 

Grief is Love’s first food, and every love that has 
not been fed on a little pure suffering must die like 
a baby that one has tried to nourish on the non-nour¬ 
ishment of man. You have awakened a love in me that 
will not again fall asleep. 

Love is no law of our making, and I know not 
whether I would dare to love a soul who had made no 
one weep. Frequently will the greatest suffering be 
caused by those whose love is greatest, for a strange, 
tender cruelty is most often the anxious sister of love 
—on all sides does Love search out for proofs of love 
—and the first proof—who is not prone to discover it 
in the tears of the beloved? 

Even death cannot suffice to reassure the lover— 
such are the unreasoning claims of love—for to the in¬ 
timate cruelty of love, the instant of death seems too 
brief—over beyond death there is yet room for a sea 
of doubts—and even in those who die together may 
disquiet still linger as they die. Long and slowly— 
falling tears are needed here! Will the love inspired 
by the man who always brought the smiles to your 
lips be quite the same as the Love you feel for him 
who at times called forth your tears? Love must weep, 
and often it is at the very moment when the sobs burst 
forth that Love's chains are forged and tempered for 
life. But it is at that very moment, when the soul is 




LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE THIRTY-NINE 


all ear—or perhaps all soul, that we recognize the 
might of an invisible goodness that could offer to the 
wretched tears of an expiring love the divine illusions 
of a love on the eve of birth! 

Has there never come to you one of those sorrow¬ 
ful evenings, when dejection lay heavy upon your 
heart, and it at length dawned upon your soul that it 
had been mistaken—when with dire dismay your 
words rang forth in the cold air of the separation that 
was to be final—you were about to part forever—and 
your lifeless hands were outstretched for the farewell 
of a departure that should know no return — when 
suddenly your soul made an imperceptible movement 
within itself! On that instant did your soul awake 
in the summit of its beings—did something spring to 
life in regions loftier far than the love of jaded lovers 
—and tho the bodies might be torn asunder hence¬ 
forth would the soul never forget that for an instant 
they had beheld each other high above mountains they 
had never seen, and that for a second’s space they had 
been good with a goodness they had never known until 
that instant. 

You ask what is this mysterious spirit—or mo¬ 
ment, which may come, not only in love, but in the 
smallest events of life? I know not. But in love—it 
is then we feel that there lurks somewhere an un¬ 
known force—it is then we feel that we are the treas¬ 
ures of an unknown God, who loves all—that not a 
gesture may pass unperceived by this God—that we 
are at length in the region of things that do not be¬ 
tray themselves. 

To love thus is to love according to the soul—and 
there is no soul that does not respond to this love. For 
the soul of man is a guest that had gone hungry these 
many centuries back, and never has it to be summoned 
twice to the nuptial feast! 

Be good to the depth of you, and you will discover 
that those who surround you will be good even to the 
same depth. Nothing responds more infallibly to the 



PAGE FORTY 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


secret cry of goodness than the secret cry of goodness 
that is near. While you are actively good in the in- 
visble, all those who approach you will unconsciously 
reflect that goodness. 

I am convinced that nothing can henceforth dim 
or affect the smile that comes from within—nothing 
can ever separate two souls which, for an instant, have 
been joined together. 

I have written you at some length, dear heart, be¬ 
cause it is a subject that arouses deep feeling within 
me—was I not contemplating walking out upon the 
beach—to let the hungry waves carry me out into the 
ocean, far from all strife—then it was I heard your 
voice! My letters tell you only too plaintly the result 
of your coming. So now, dream love, come and gather 
the Love Blossoms that I am tending for you so loving¬ 
ly. The cage of your door is open and held back! The 
sunlight is upon the hyacinths; the gentle breeze is stir¬ 
ring the young leaves of the palms—and I am listening 
for the fluttering of wings—COME! 

MAY THIRD 
XVIII 

I am just in receipt of your cablegram!—and I 
have answered. It is wonderful to know that you are 
coming! You are leaving for New York—where you 
will be for a few weeks—purchasing—and being fitted. 

Yes, I will meet you there. I cannot wait—I will 
help you select some of your purchases. 

I am writing you today. 

Your wire was a message from the gods to an 
expiring human soul! 

JUNE FIRST 

I am sitting on the beach, under the same dear 
old palms, where I first beheld you. 

Is it a dream—that I am to see you soon! Am I 
in the Silence—in the Temple of Dreams? 

A crimson smile is dying in the West, while the 



LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE FORTY-ONE 


East sends shadows creeping from her night. I am 
alone. I watch the golden clouds out yonder lose 
their wealth—the darkness of the East creeps on. The 
crimson smile is becoming a line of fire—now gray, 
blending with purple—the sky is growing deeper, the 
stars are beginning to twinkle—first singly, then in 
clusters—now a million, like yellow diamonds floating 
on a purple sea! The dew is seeking the flowers— 
and as night settles down upon the land and sea, there 
comes a sense of awe and wonder! For I realize that 
bigger things than Yourselves silence us — we may 
know by the “signals” if we are being mastered in this 
way, for with these signals silence comes—we know 
it is the still small voice within us giving us the key, 
the true register. So it is when we truly love! Mere 
words slip away like truant waves upon the sand, and 
we lose ourselves in a magnificent solitude—that 
speaking, impressive majesty of the Infinite Mind 
flowing into our finite minds. We are caught by the 
embrace of silence in the arms of our true mother— 
nature. We feel an intense quietude and serenity—a 
sweet peace. 

Oh, am I soon to hold you in these arms? These 
arms that for months and years have ached and 
yearned for you! One month—and you are to be MY 
WIFE! My companion for eternity—no more part¬ 
ings—no tears—no wretched, lonely hours — always 
to be together, so apart from the world. Just at sunset 
we will be united—quite alone, with the simplicity 
suited to our love, we will receive that benediction of 
Silence where only truth and beauty abide. 

I picture you as the last rays of the sun fall over 
you, forming a halo around your glorious head! The 
low, deep tones of the organ playing that exquisite 
song of Schubert's “Still as the Night,” vibrating thru 
the little chapel—the flowers .and autumn leaves on 
the altar—placed there by Ampardo—the silent, tense 
faces of our darling mothers as they place our hands 
together—the little sobs from Helen and Victoria as 



PAGE FORTY-TWO 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


they kiss their big playmate, with sweet childish love 
in their innocent eyes—a whisper—a sigh—a chord 
tells me the simple ceremony is over—and I pass down 
the aisle with you at my side, with an infinite love—a 
love that sweeps everything before it. 

Then in my fancy, the picture changes. Several 
years have passed, and there is something to go home 
to—that is the one thought in my heart—just the one 
word—HOME—and I say it over and over to myself. 
I think of you standing in our doorway waiting for 
me—just me — standing there in the twilight, with 
your dear arms reaching out to me—your smile—your 
kiss—your sweet gentleness and tender beauty—re¬ 
served for me. My arms are full of flowers—love blos¬ 
soms I have picked on the hills for you, and as I take 
you in my arms they fall all over you, dropping at 
your feet. Then slowly we walk into our little home. 

I see you sitting by the big log fire—just as I 
have seen you in my dreams—and there is a wee girl 
in your arms, beautiful in mind and body, her deep dark 
eyes looking into yours—so sweet, so gentle, so lovely 
that I can only think of wild flowers—and Chopin noc¬ 
turnes—and all exquisite things—and suddenly I 
awaken from my reverie—with the splendid realiza¬ 
tion that it is all going to be true! How little I dared 
hope that such dreams could ever materialize! 

And now I end this—my last letter to you as your 
lover—in the conventional sense—yet how can I ever 
be anything else to you! 

Marriage often brings unhappiness—but that is 
in worldly unions. Thank God, there are a few true, 
understanding people left in the world—who love so 
deeply, so profoundly—a love that cannot be dese¬ 
crated—the memory of it ever shielding us from 
thought of another— 

Tonight, as I gaze up into the silent, pale beauty 
of the stars, I see them in a new light—as symbols of 
the dignity of love! 







U-'iM 

























LOVE BLOSSOMS 


PAGE FORTY-THREE 


Until we meet, I can say no more—only believe 
that my heart is bursting with happiness and gratitude 
to you and to that splendid law of the Universe- 
Fate, which leads us to our own! 

You will be my own forever—forever to hold you 
in my arms—to serve you—to shield you from all 
harm—to care for your little wants—guarding you as 
sacredly as God himself would guard the angels — 
leading you gently over the rough places—triumphant 
in the glory and majesty of so beautful a mission— 
bringing inspiration and wider understanding of Life 
—of Love—of YOU! 


THE END. 



PAGE FORTY-FOUR 


LOVE BLOSSOMS 


EPILOGUE 

I have risen with the crest of the waves and I 
have sunk into its deepest trough. I have soared to 
the mountain-tops and I have dwelt in the recesses 
of the valley. I have traveled from sphere to sphere 
—and yet have I not moved from where I stand. For 
at all times, and in all places, Love also abides and 
illuminates with true light, kissing love’s blossoms 
with the vision of eternal bliss. 

Then I return to the Garden—the Garden of Love 
Blossoms—and I watch the gentle zephyrs blowing 
softly over the flowers, swaying them this way—that 
way—carrying their dainty perfumes in its path— 
some only a little way—others farther — and others 
right out of the garden into the sleeping world outside. 

The sighing of the breezes ceases awhile, so I 
close the gate of the Garden of Love Blossoms, and 
linger without its high walls, lest by my absence from 
the spot the passers-by perchance might not notice 
either the perfumes or the garden whence they came. 
But verily, the garden, the gardener and the perfume 
are all ONE! 

Earnestly praying that you will catch the perfume 
of this volume and gather, in turn, Love Blossoms, I 
bid you “good-bye.” 


The Author. 
































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